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"You seem to be holding the course, all right sou'west, by sou', Senor LeVere says." "Yas, Senor." "What is your name?" "Cochose, Senor; Ah's a French nigger." "Very good, Cochose; my name is Gates, and I am the new first officer. If you need any help, let me know."
While my explanation might suffice, I greatly preferred having to present it only as a last resort. I would much rather slip quietly aboard, and mingle unnoticed with the crew for the next few hours, than be haled at once before LeVere, and endure his scrutiny and possible violence. The fellow was evidently a brute, and a hard master.
Blinded by fog, the water dripping from my hair, weakened by struggle and loss of blood, my mad rage against LeVere for the moment obscured all else in my mind. What had become of the fellow? Had he gone down like a stone? Or was he somewhere behind this curtain of fog? A splash to the right led me to take a dozen strokes hastily, but to no purpose.
LeVere will understand what you are up to, and will make no objection. As soon as you have everything ready, let me know." "We are none of us armed, sir." "That is what I was coming to. I'll think up a way to do this without creating any suspicion. Then we'll get these arms in the rack here, and be ready for business the rest will be done in a hurry. You have it all clear?" "Yes, sir."
I asked a few questions, although I paid but little attention to what he said, my mind being busied with searching out his real purpose. No doubt the situation was very nearly as he described it to be LeVere was no navigator, and Estada himself only an indifferent one.
If there is any treachery on deck it may lead to their release." "You were talking with Senor LeVere; I overheard a word or two. He is not with you willingly?" "No," and I swept the deck seeking him, fearful what I said might be overheard. "I distrust him more than any of the others. Those men forward are seamen, and will abide by their mates.
It's hell when English sailormen has got ter take orders frum a damned nigger, an' be knocked 'round if they don't jump when he barks. He's goin' ter get a knife in his ribs sum day." "Maybe he is; but yer better hold yer tongue, Tom. Sanchez don't stand fer thet talk, an' he's back o' LeVere. Let's go in; them gaskets will hold all right now cum 'long."
"Name yerselves, bunkies I can't see yer." "Simmes." "Schmitt." "Ravel DeLasser." "Carter." "Jacob Johansen." "Sam." "That's enough; you lads remain here with me. Have Harwood watch LeVere, while the rest of you get out the boats." "How many, sir?" "The two quarter-boats will hold us all. Knock out the plugs in the others and Watkins!" "Ay, ay, sir."
With the death of Sanchez, his second in command would undoubtedly succeed him; but would that be Estada, or would it be this other, the mulatto, Francois LeVere? More likely the former, for while buccaneers had operated under colored chiefs, a crew of white men would naturally prefer to be led by one of their own color.
A few fellows were lounging amidships and stared idly at us as we mounted to the poop deck. These were of the fighting contingent I supposed, and the real members of the crew were forward. LeVere was still on duty, and came forward and shook hands at my appearance. "Rather glad I didn't drown you," he said, intending to be pleasant. "But hope you'll not run amuck in the after cabin."
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